


Medus

by larissabernstein



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt Will Graham, Introspection, M/M, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette looking into a scene post season three.</p><p>Beta-read by the lovely Pamdizzle.<br/> </p><p>Written for the Hannigram Holiday Gift Exchange 2015. Happy holidays, Technicallysillybouquet!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medus

The liquid burns pleasantly in his throat, its simple sweetness and aromatic taste both heightening and tempering the fire. Like the swipe of a warm and loving tongue soothing freshly bitten skin, he thinks, but immediately shakes off the idea. When one begins associating cheap liqueur with kisses and love bites, it might be high time to stop. Stop drinking or stop thinking, that is.

He sinks deeper into the cushions, mindful of his throbbing shoulder, and stares into the dancing flames before him. The fire’s still going strong, and there are enough logs stacked next to the fireplace that he won’t need to venture outside into the snow to get more from the barn. It is tempting to give in and let sleep and exhaustion overtake him, but right now he can’t. Not with the silence and emptiness of the house screaming at him.

Hannibal has been gone for five hours now.

He takes another sip of the amber coloured liquid in his snifter. _Krupnikas_ , Hannibal had called it. A simple yet potent drink to chase away cold and fear alike. A potent wound disinfectant, too, if need be. And given their rocky past and unsure future this need is nothing to be brushed aside lightly. Will feels the weight of the wide glass in his hands; it should not be that heavy. But then, it carries the bittersweet childhood memory of clandestine sips and the giggles of a proud sister. Memories that are not Will’s, but towards which he feels possessive and protective nevertheless. There are many doors in Hannibal’s memory palace that are still firmly under lock and key and kept away from Will’s highly perceptive mind. Sharing, especially the sharing of innocent childhood moments, does not come easily to Hannibal, no matter how interwoven and entwined their lives have become. Will is well aware that even the most cryptic and fragmented childhood story seeping through the cracks is a precious gift, offered in vulnerable hesitation. He will never let these offerings go to waste, but cherish them for the tokens of love and trust they are.

Hannibal might not be back before dawn.

“I did not even like the taste of _krupnikas_ ,” Hannibal had said. “But to see her giggle behind our parents’ backs, to feel her admiring glances, was enough of a motive for me. I could deny her nothing.”

Will tries to picture a young mischievous Hannibal, his biggest sin sneaking a few sips from his father’s liquor cabinet, maybe months or mere weeks away from the impending doom that would alter much more than only one family’s fate. However, no matter how hard he tries, he cannot conjure up the image in his mind. There is no way he can bring Hannibal and the concept of innocence together; if anything, the closest candidate is their moment on the cliff top. This was Hannibal in his purest and most innocent form, on the edge of human precipice, a dark angel fallen into grace. Maybe this says more about Will than it does about Hannibal.

Fighting off sleep is getting harder each minute. The crackle of wood in the fireplace, the continuous howl of the wind outside, the incredibly soft cushions of a couch that seemingly tries to swallow him up. He would let it. The sweetness of honey on his tongue and the crisp smell of conifers in his nose make him light-headed and mellow. It could also be the infection spreading from his shoulder; it could be the fever running through his veins. The pain in his arm is now a dull but persistent burn, pulsing in accord with his heartbeat.

They had worked in silence when they’d put up a few decorative fir sprigs this morning, their needles still damp and glistening after they had shaken off the snow. Or rather, Hannibal had worked. Will had found himself bundled up in blankets and deposited in Hannibal’s armchair, a front row seat to watch something that was a far cry from Hannibal’s staging his elaborate holiday decorations all these years ago in Baltimore, but much more honest and personal. The intimacy and domesticity of it had been almost overwhelming, with Hannibal’s face so completely unguarded, nostalgia and reminiscence openly showing on his features. It had made Will want to embrace him and shield him from the world, from the past, from himself. A ridiculous idea, Will knows, but even hours later he still can’t quell the warm feeling in his chest. It is unsettling but surprisingly not unwelcome.

Hannibal will come back. This much is sure.

It is an absurd thought, especially given that Will has never been one to believe in fate or chalk up life’s vagaries to some kind of predestination. But after all they’ve been through, after surviving all kinds of dangers, but especially each other, it seems ridiculous to worry about the what-ifs a snow storm might do to them.

His shoulder protests when he gets up and stretches just far enough to put the empty snifter on the coffee table and snatch the plaid from the backrest of Hannibal’s fauteuil. The thick wool is a comforting weight on his body, with just the hint of a scent that is entirely Hannibal. With their safe house several hours of walking away from the next village, and well hidden in a thick forest of fir trees, there is no immediate reason to keep vigil, but he will not retreat to his room tonight. He will sit it out, safely ensconced in the lion’s den, and for once take advantage of the hazy calm that warms his mind and drowns out the concerns of practical life.

“Have you ever built a blanket fort?” he had joked to break up the increasing tension between them and burst the domestic bubble that had begun to choke him. Hannibal had only stilled for a second and, after a brief frown, replied, “I have. But it did not save her.” The rest of the morning had been spent with a sort of restless energy that kept grating on Will’s nerves. Hannibal had kept fussing about Will the entire time, so that it had been an initial relief when he'd finally headed out into the snow.

It’s all coming back now, blurry around the edges and softly distorted by alcohol and exhaustion. Will can see him fighting the cold, fighting time. It is not a helpless child, though, that runs through the woods; there is an innate darkness to the figure. Its regular footfalls reverberate in his mind, meet Will’s own, and lull him to sleep, Hannibal’s scent in his nose and his presence saturating Will’s very existence.

He can’t say how many hours later he wakes, but it is still dark outside. Hannibal is back, and Will has to blink several times to be sure it is not a dream.

Will had not heard the door open and close, had not noticed the ice cold wind pop in for just a few seconds, long enough to blow a handful of snowflakes into their hideaway. It can’t be long, however, as the first sight that his eyes manage to focus on is Hannibal with ruddy cheeks and nose, frozen specks of white still in his beard and on the overcoat he is still wearing. This beard yet has to lose its novelty for Will; it is incongruous with his familiar image of Hannibal. The desire to reach out and brush the melting snow off his face is strong - a raw, physical need.

“Have you got the documents?” Will rasps instead with a voice rough from sleep and liqueur, as he struggles with the blanket to get into a sitting position, and he winces at his own words that sound unnaturally loud and rude to him. It is a lousy greeting after these many hours of Hannibal weathering the elements. For them. For him.

But Hannibal only nods and his words come out curt and clipped, spoken through lips that are still stiff and sore from the cold: “Passports, birth certificates, driving licences. Perfect pieces of craftsmanship. Our tickets.” A beat and Hannibal breaks eye contact. “Antibiotics. Well worth the arduous trip.”

 _You are worth it_ , hangs unspoken between them.

There is nothing Will can think of to say. Good? Thank you? You shouldn’t have? So he moves to make room next to him on the couch and lifts the plaid in what he hopes looks like the invitation it is meant to be.

“Sit with me?” It comes out as a question that is too fragile and weak for Will’s taste. He wants to try again, but shakes his head with a self-deprecating snort.

“You - you are not an innocent man; you never were,” he says instead and grasps for the hand closest to him.

Hannibal gives him an indulgent smile and shrugs out of the soaked wool of his coat before he lets himself be pulled down onto the couch. “And you are not a sober one, Will.”

“Sober enough to see you.”

He locks eyes with Hannibal and knows that the unwavering look he can give him is of utmost, intimate importance to the other. It is the only reassurance he can offer.

The last snowflakes turn into droplets under his hands on Hannibal’s bearded cheeks. Will wipes them away, and there is no way he can deny the caress that is barely concealed under a perfunctory touch. Leaning in to close the distance between their faces comes naturally. It is the right thing to do; there is no need to overthink this. Just like on the cliff he is willing to complete this one step that will take him over the edge of the last precipice. He hears Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat and feels the man go completely still under his hands, before their lips meet across the abyss. Sweetness is what Will perceives first, a sweetness that is surely not due to the honey liqueur he had in abundance. It is the taste of innocence, just barely there, a trace of happiness too fragile to put into words. It takes a moment, but then Hannibal kisses him back, chastely and carefully - and Will knows that this very taste is just as much Hannibal’s as it is his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Medus: Lithuanian for "honey".
> 
> Krupnikas: a strong, sweet alcoholic drink, usually made from grain alcohol, honey, and herbs, very popular in Lithuania and Poland (where it is known as "Krupnik"). If you want to make your own, here's a [recipe](http://en.recidemia.com/wiki/Krupnikas) that comes pretty close to the authentic stuff. But don't blow up your kitchen!


End file.
